


Whispers

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Survivor Emily Chen [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/F, Gun Kink, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wanna hear you say just one true thing, dammit. One true thing.” Something Glory can grip tight. Brand it in her palm, carry it as token, as stigmata. Either let it drag her down or give her something to hold on to. Because this woman is gonna be the death of her, one way or another. Tastes copper in the back of her mouth-- blood or broken circuits, electric-sour on her tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers

_Whisper? More like Ghost-- she won’t stop haunting me._

Whisper’s all of five feet in her boots, a wisp of shadow and moonlight. Skin like ivory, a dead thing polished ‘til it shines. Dark hair, darker eyes. Hair skims her shoulders, with long bangs she pins back in the field, lets loose back in HQ.

Right now they’re pinned back as she flows down the hallway on mist-soft feet, a patch of darker shade where she stands. Like she draws the shadows about her, or they recognize one of their own. Like a Courser going dark, a ripple of movement in the air.

Except she’s human. Not even using a Stealth Boy.

Glory normally goes in with minigun blazing, calls hallelujah in bullets. Sings destruction in her wake.

Whisper slips ahead, like water, like moonlight, like memory-- laser pistol in her hand, red beam sizzling a precise kill-count of its own. One shot, one kill. Last thing they see (if anything) is the light calling them to whatever eternity awaits.

Death walks the halls in Whisper’s skin.

“So much for rocking the heavens, big gal,” Whisper chuckles, this time from behind-- Glory just took her eyes off her for one second, one _moment_ , less than a heartbeat, and Whisper did that damn liquid slide around her. “We cleared out all the raiders and synths. Think this station’s salvageable?” She can be so loud when she wants, a deliberate heel-toe strike that echoes through the empty station. Magnifies herself over the electric thrum of the generators, the hiss of the lights.

“Probably not. Gonna let Dez decide, though. If SRB knows it’s here, no point in coming back. Just confirmed why they went dark.” Not gonna turn, not gonna show that Whisper just freaked the shit out of her. Spooky girl from shadowed past-- lies at least as much as Deacon. The little bits she’s dropped, or claimed to drop, just don’t add up. Glory remembers-- or at least remembers the implanted memories of-- life before the war. Lawyers weren’t trained to move like shadows across the moon, wouldn’t chuckle and say they prefered lasers over ballistic weapons because ‘the immediate cauterization limits mess.’

Gazing into Whisper’s eyes is like drowning in deep water. Elegant quirk of those thin eyebrows, mouth parting in a moue of dismay. “I have something on my face, Glory?”

“You only shut up during an op, huh?” Glory chuckles, rifling through desk drawers. Once-crisp files, sorted alphabetically. Sticky notes tacked in color-coded message. Like the Railroad’s compartmentalization, codes and signals and dead drops-- all things meant to protect their members, their rescues. Shield them from discovery. Shield them from one another.

Glory makes more clatter than she really has to, silver drum-rattle masking her jangling nerves as she slams the drawer shut.

“I only shut up when I need to. I’ve swallowed too many words and choked on silence,” Whisper says flippantly, pulling a pack of gum from her pocket. Uses her thumb to slide a stick out, offering.

Glory shakes her head. “And who tried to silence you?”

Whisper laughs like bells, eyes cold. Unwraps her gum with a crinkle and a whiff of cinnamon. “I’m Chinese. That used to mean something.” She pops the gum against her palate, chewing. “And I was a lawyer. That also used to mean something.”

Like crumbs into the forest, Glory could follow the trail-- chooses not to. No concern as long as Whisper does her goddamn job. Not going to let the other woman itch under her skin. Like cayenne, like chili, like the sweet-sticky pulp of crushed tarberry.

Glory discovers an ammo box, cleans it out. Pockets jangling, but she measures safety in bullets. For her and her friends.

Still not sure if that includes Whisper.

Maybe doesn’t matter where Whisper stands, so much as where she’s facing.

“Come on, Glory. Cat got your tongue?”

Glory wheels on her, strikes her boots across the stone floor and looms. She’s got an impressive loom; has practiced in mirrors. “Cut the act. You and your ghost ops, your secret agent shit. Deacon vouched for you, but just because he’s trustworthy doesn’t mean he’s always on the up-and-up.”

“So which bothers you more, when I’m quiet or when I’m noisy?” Whisper twists her lips into a half-smirk, fingers drumming against the wall. Tiny tap-tap-tap of motion, smacking her gum loud.

“I wanna hear you say just one true thing, dammit. One true thing.” Something Glory can grip tight. Brand it in her palm, carry it as token, as stigmata. Either let it drag her down or give her something to hold on to. Because this woman is gonna be the death of her, one way or another. Tastes copper in the back of her mouth-- blood or broken circuits, electric-sour on her tongue.

“I’ve told you nothing but truths, Glory.” Whisper leans back against the wall, shoulders flush with the stone. Edges of her armor scraping the wall, chest and arm-pieces over that reinforced vault suit. Synth pieces; like a human playing at wearing circuits. Like a synth seen through a distorted mirror. Rolls her neck, lets it crack. “But here’s another one, gratis: I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first saw you. God, Glory, glorious, resplendent in the light. Quite an impression you made on little old me.” Dips her head, mouth somewhere between smile and sadness. “C’mon, don’t you recognize flirting when you hear it?”

“You-- you fucking--” And Glory can’t help laughing, high and sharp like glass slicing up her throat. “I just told you I don’t trust a damn thing you say. And you pull this stunt?”

“Do you trust what I do, then?” Raises her hand-- and god, what a giddy, drunken smell, ozone and sweat and cinnamon all ground into her skin, like death’s own perfume-- to cup Glory’s jaw, trace a thumb along the hollow of her throat. Grounding herself in the blood-drum of Glory’s artificial circulation. “Actions speak louder than words, right? But I’m not gonna act unless I know it’s returned.”

And maybe it’s frustration, pressurized until it explodes-- maybe it’s lust, maybe it’s the realization they cleared this whole damn station and Glory didn’t get to fire her damn gun _once_ \-- but Glory reads it as challenge, grabs Whisper’s wrist and yanks it over her head. Pins her against the wall, grinds her thigh between Whisper’s legs.

Whisper keeps her arm limp, tilts her chin so she still manages to look down her nose as she grins. A crescent-moon smile, secretive and shining. Wrist grabs are one of the easiest, most basic holds to escape-- and they both know it. Because it’s still all push between them, no shove.

“You’re gonna have to put down your gun,” Whisper murmurs, tucking her gum into the pocket of her cheek. Cool burn of breath as she puckers her mouth, blows cinnamon into Glory’s face.

Goddammit, she’s right. And Glory hates when she’s right. So she turns, wedging her hip at the junction of Whisper’s legs. Grinds as she lowers her minigun, then turns her attention back to Whisper. Pulls the laser pistol from Whisper’s holster, tests the barrel against her own forearm. Still warm, humming from its recent discharge.

“The hell you doing?” Whisper asks, voice too-casual as her spine becomes a rigid line of tension.

“Nothing that’s gonna hurt you,” Glory says, turning the flippancy back on her. Pauses, looking Whisper in the eye. No more forever-fall into darkness, now something soft and vulnerable in those black eyes. “I mean it. I go too far, or before that-- tell me to stop, and I will. Not gonna hurt you, Whisper. Even if you’re the damnedest woman I ever met.”

“Same, Glory. Can’t promise I’m always gonna tell you the truth, but I’m never gonna hurt you. Truest thing I can say.” The sleeves of her vault suit slip, expose silver-thread scars about her wrists-- like circuits peeling beneath the skin, like it’s just another layer to whatever she is.

They kiss, more teeth than lips. Raising sparks between them, Whisper’s lips flushed like bruises when they finally part. Glory cycles the fusion cell, sets it humming-- insufficient charge to fire, but more than enough for this. Sets the warm barrel at that delta of space between her thigh and Whisper’s groin, angling her grip so it rides into the cleft of Whisper’s body. Tight against the seam, thick bulb of the gyro lens rasping against the wall.

Glory pauses, afraid she’s gonna break Whisper’s expensive little toy, but Whisper hisses, “Oh fffuck,” rising to her toes. Shoulders scraping the wall, her one wrist still loosely pinned and her other hand gripping Glory’s shoulder. Sliding off the pads, bunching into the thick fabric of her coat. Such soft little hands, clean nails despite all the goddamn dirty work they do. “Glory, I--” Goes silent when Glory sucks behind her ear, gnaws to leave a blood-purple mark. Whisper bites her lip, white teeth glinting in the dim station.

“Stop being so goddamn quiet. Scream for me,” Glory grunts, lifting her body into Whisper’s. Kisses sharp and fierce, all her bones and edges into it. Gonna carve her memory into Whisper, just as hard as Whisper’s already done to her. Like an etching, like a lithograph. Something that won’t just fade away by morning’s light.

Whisper laughs, shaky and defiant. Like a flag waving bright across the battlefield. “Gonna have to rip it out of me, Glory.” A soft whimper as she bucks her hips, grinding into the pistol. Suit too thick to tell, but Glory bets her panties are soaked. Fancies she can catch of a whiff, under the gunmetal and plasma.

Glory shakes her head, panting. Mouth spilling open, surprised her breath’s not sizzling the air. Kisses Whisper’s neck, tastes the leather cord hung loose. Knotted like a nightmare, rough against Glory’s lips. A glint of gold in the shadows of Whisper’s suit. Still wearing a dead man’s ring. Still marked, if not claimed. Burns something sour inside Glory, so she bites hard. Kisses again after, some sweet with the harsh. Shouldn’t be this close, shouldn’t be this hot. Shouldn’t be grinding a laser against the cunt of their newest heavy down in a dingy station with bodies all around, mineral tang in the air and grime crusting the walls. Shouldn’t be doing lots of things.

Shouldn’t be loving the way Whisper whimpers through her teeth, body sagging as she struggles to keep her feet. All her frayed edges and patchwork lies coming undone, lost with the pistol humming between them and the heat pressing Glory’s thigh. Lip bit hard between her teeth to keep from crying out.

Glory’s not gonna beg her for more, not gonna rip it out. Gonna make her sing for it, make it pour out like rain from the gates of heaven. Spill her open.

So Glory kisses her on the mouth, lips mashed against teeth. Tastes the cinnamon and salt of her skin, nibbles at the thrust of Whisper’s tongue. Travels spice across her face-- cinnamon burn in her kiss, alkaline bitter behind her ear, a trace of unfamiliar soap. Faint and floral sweetness at her scalp, a lingering honey from whatever shampoo she uses. Could gulp her in, swallow her whole. Bitty little thing like her wouldn’t even choke on the way down.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah…” Whisper prays, or maybe chants-- something more akin to loss than religion, eyes blazing fierce and unseeing. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name…” Shifts gears, something clicking behind those words as she grinds down, coils her foot behind Glory’s ankle. “Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth. Your love is better than wine…” and she opens her mouth, petal-soft and supple.

Glory lowers her mouth, drinks deep. Cinnamon gum still at the side of her cheek, easy to ignore. More tongue than lips as Whisper breathes harsh and ragged. Like torn silk, like prayers burnt and scattered to the wind. Sends shivers down Glory’s spine, makes the sweat-slick hair stick to the back of her neck. Chafes the fabric across her shoulders as she twitches, rocks the warm pistol against Whisper’s clit. Vibration tingling through her palm, ozone and danger sharp even with the fuel cells cycling on empty. Like battery acid, singes the back of her nose.

Whisper whimpers as Glory tightens the grip on her wrist, so Glory lets go-- but then Whisper seizes the front of her collar, pulls in like she’s drowning, drowning, and it’s like this, this is how worlds end, this is how the earth shivers and breaks apart because Whisper fucking _sings_ as she comes, a ululating cry that echoes and shatters like stained glass--

She collapses, limp and spent. Glory kisses her cheek, folds Whisper’s arm across her shoulders and tucks her into a nearby chair. Wouldn’t trust one of the filthy mattresses, even if Whisper hadn’t found Psycho and Med-X syringes scattered about the bedding. Wouldn’t that be the needle-prick to end their fairytale.

“Hey, hey. Talk to me,” she coaxes, acid-rasp in her throat. Lips cracking, salt-dry and only worsening when she licks them. “Talk to me, Whisper. How you feeling?”

“So damn good it ought to be illegal,” Whisper breathes, hoarse and ragged. Even now all her frayed edges restitching themselves, silk-supple and warm. Setting the pace of her lungs, would alter the metronome of her heart if she could. The only part of her that’s still struggling to beat itself free. “That true enough for you, Glory?”

Shit, Glory almost forgot the argument that sparked the whole thing. Coals not yet dormant, lingering heat just waiting to be stoked. “Fuck. I don’t always like you, but I trust you. How shitty is that?”

“Not all that different from most people.” Whisper smiles, another of those sad twists that fail to reach her eyes. “I can put on a pretty little mask, make people like me,” she says, miming a doll-like smile and dead eyes, so meek it sends shivers down Glory’s spine. Like some of the synths they rescued, the ones still terrified of showing any personality, any preferences of their own beyond the desire to be free. “But then _I_ don’t like me.”

“Who were you before the cryo, really?”

Whisper shakes her head, bats the question away. Adjusts her pins, hair swept back. Just enough loose to shield the bruises already forming.

(Glory is glad, a little. This thing they have might not survive sunlight.)

“A lawyer, like I said,” Whisper says, cool and dismissive. Rises to her feet in one fluid motion. Clicks her heels against the floor, taps her empty holster and holds out her hand. Even the dewing sweat gone from her face. “My pistol, please?”

Glory hands it to her, like passing a relic. Whisper buffs it with the edge of her sleeve before slipping it back in place.

They don’t talk for the rest of the trip back to HQ.


End file.
